


To Bear a King

by Luthienberen



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-01
Updated: 2013-10-01
Packaged: 2017-12-28 03:53:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/987354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthienberen/pseuds/Luthienberen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo never thought he would have to carry Thorin anywhere. Yet here he is, doing just that.</p>
<p>
  <i>Major spoilers for the end of The Hobbit</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Bear a King

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit is the creation of Mr J.R.R. Tolkien; the film adaptation to Peter Jackson – I am only borrowing for a short while!
> 
> This little fic is a blend between the book & movie and is just my take on an event in the book that isn’t delved into too much. My first Hobbit fic and attempt to delve into Bilbo’s head. Beta-read by the wonderful rae_fa.

 

 Bilbo never thought he would carry Thorin, least of all like this.

Golly, Thorin had been too tall, too muscular from years of weapons training and actual battles; too laden with his furs, leathers and boots.

Had been…because while Thorin was still too tall, too heavy and too muscular, Bilbo bore his weight without complaint.

For in death Bilbo was determined to share the burden with his dwarf companions of bearing Thorin and his nephews to their final resting place.

Carefully navigating the steps Bilbo momentarily glanced up, face slick with sweat, curls sticking to his forehead. To his right was Bofur, happy cheerful Bofur, always ready with a welcoming smile, now gloomy and weary from loss.

Behind him were Bifur and Dwalin. Bilbo felt the painful crush of the bier even through the layers of cloth the dwarves had designed so that Bilbo, a member of Thorin’s company might partake in this last service to their dead King.

Torchlight flickered, enveloping them in a golden nimbus as they proceeded down the steps to the tombs of the ancient kings and queens of Erebor. The light caught the numerous gemstones set in the rock walls, causing shimmers of amethyst, citrine and diamond to dance around the procession. 

Up-ahead Bilbo could discern the coffins lying ready for the three they bore. His throat constricted and Bilbo fought the urge to weep.  If he did so now he would be unable to bear Thorin a step further and his friend deserved better than that.

The stone was cool to his feet and reminded Bilbo of the lack of warmth in Thorin.

The coolness of the air was undisturbed by sheer number of dwarves, men and elves that had gathered to grant these three farewell. Yet all Bilbo could feel was a coldness that sank heavier into his bones and flesh as he marched on.

At last they stepped onto the unnaturally smooth floor. Silently the four of them walked to the largest and most ornate coffin. Catching Bofur’s worried gaze Bilbo simply twisted his lips into a facsimile of a smile as he geared himself for the hardest part.

On a silent count of three, Bilbo heaved and steadily they lifted Thorin onto the polished surface. Bifur behind him grunted and Bilbo sensed how much his three companions stole the greater share of the feat. It didn’t bother Bilbo, at least he had done something.

 At least he had accompanied Thorin to his resting place and ensured he went not alone.

Looking to his right Bilbo saw Bombur, Balin, Oin and Gloin gently do the same for Fili. Turning his head to his left, Dori, Ori, Nori and Dis – mother of the two dead princes – repeated the action for Kili.

Bilbo wanted to cry.

He could see the two lads: Fili’s golden hair so neatly arrayed upon the pillow, braids of his moustache perfectly threaded and face pale in repose while his swords were laid beside him; Kili’s hair un-braided as in life, raven-black on his pillow, archer’s bow and arrows precisely tucked into the quiver.

And Thorin Oakenshield was like carved rock upon his death bed. Black hair streaked with silver combed and braided, beard cleaned of dust and blood. Bilbo had never witnessed his friend’s face to be so relaxed.

His weapons were at his side and as Bilbo watched, Bard stepped forward and placed the accursed Arkenstone upon Thorin’s breast and Bilbo could only wonder at how the beautiful colours of the stone matched not the splendour of the dead dwarf king.

Bard retreated and as Bilbo stared at Thorin, dark Kili and golden Fili he became aware of the music.

It was the music of the dwarves: deep and powerful; winding its way around and _through_ you, sinking into your bones and beyond until your very soul vibrated with the essence of this people of rock and stone.

Bilbo recalled the night the dwarves had sung in his room and shivered, for now the song was different and did not speak of gold or jewels or long-lost kingdoms. No, now the song wrapped Bilbo in sorrow and fresh pain for it sang of a king and two young princes lost in battle, as they sought to reclaim their home.

It shook Bilbo with the images conjured of Aulë’s Halls in Mandos where the dwarves gather to meet sundered kin and in this Bilbo wanted to weep; for here was a bitter parting – he could not follow his friends for he was a hobbit and they dwarves.

Bilbo squeezed his eyes shut against the crushing pain that stole his breath and gripped his heart.

_Thorin, I will not see you again until the world is re-made. Oh, Fili and Kili…we shan’t go stumbling along finding forgotten pathways for a time beyond my reckoning._

The voices rose and Bilbo opened his eyes, unable to keep them shut against the music that strained under the currents of grief. The glint of the Arkenstone caught Bilbo’s eye again and Bilbo felt the hot burn of tears.

Thorin was as cold and still as a statue that the skilled dwarves had carved from marble. Up there rested in a frozen moment of time, like an insect in amber, the majesty, stubbornness and wisdom of his friend Thorin.

Memory crested and the terrible present retreated as Bilbo was embraced by a very much alive, hot and sweaty Thorin, saved from death by Bilbo and Gandalf.

Bilbo basked in the smile Thorin had graced him with and the hope that this signalled the beginning of friendship. Bilbo remembered poignantly the days that followed: Thorin including him, apologising, confiding in him where he couldn’t with his dwarven companions.

The sweet times they had partaken in pipe-weed while Thorin had revealed bit by bit his past; until Bilbo felt he had lived those days beside Thorin.

When Thorin had rejected him, Bilbo had been devastated yet determined. When Thorin had asked for forgiveness Bilbo hadn’t been able to resist – it wasn’t in his nature to harbour hate or spite.

They had parted as friends and Bilbo was grateful, for he couldn’t have endured in the knowledge his friend, his king if only in the secret chambers of his heart, had passed on to Aulë’s Halls despising Bilbo and his attempt to prevent war.

Bilbo Baggins wept and he could hear through the clamour in his head the mournful wails of the dwarves. Looking up he gasped.

Three groups of dwarves had stepped forward and now they began to lower Thorin and his sister-sons into their tombs.

Bilbo heard Ori’s quiet moan and glanced sideways to the young dwarf. Anger and grief etched his features and Bilbo knew that he especially missed the princes, for they had been closest in age. Bilbo also recognised Ori’s anger because he understood from whence it came: Fili and Kili had been so young and had lost their lives in this venture to reclaim their kingdom. Now they would not benefit from their home.

Day and night had been extinguished and for Bilbo he would forever recall their laughter and seriousness, along with their fierceness in battle. He would remember their friendship and Kili’s ease at including him in their songs and conferences.

The echo of the tomb slabs closing, encasing the three Durin’s forevermore wrenched Bilbo’s heart.

Then in the ringing void the Elvenking stepped forward and placed Orcist on Thorin’s tomb and Bilbo wanted simply to run from this place, for he could not bear the memories anymore – for memories were one thing, but to endure the memories while confronted with the harsh reality in front of you was too much; it was too soon, too fresh for memory to be properly enjoyed.

It was with profound relief mixed with regret that Bilbo saw the dwarves turn and head towards the stairs once more. The music was now without words and Bilbo allowed it to take him once more.

He was grateful now he was heading home soon, for Erebor held too much pain to linger long. There would be time later to visit properly and his dwarf friends had promised to return as well.


End file.
